


Hollowed Out

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eliot goes through with his suggestion, M/M, Quentin gets mindwiped, somewhat of a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: They hear about the incident after the fact. The whispers are everywhere, sometimes vague and sometimes outlandishly detailed -- all of them damning.Quentin Coldwater has been expelled.Season 1 AU: Eliza isn't the specialist, so Q does get wiped and expelled. Eliot makes good on his suggestion.





	1. The Rumor Mill

They hear about the incident after the fact. The whispers are everywhere, sometimes vague and sometimes outlandishly detailed -- all of them damning. 

Quentin Coldwater has been expelled. 

How it happened is up for debate, but the simple fact that Quentin is no longer a student of Brakebills is indisputable. No one has seen him since he was called to meet with the specialist. None of his belongings are in the dorms, either. Some of the students, ones who never bothered to talk to him in the first place, who probably couldn't even pick him out of a crowd, talk about how he pleaded to be given another chance. They say he begged and cried and had to be held in place so that they could wipe his memories. They say he tried to run, to attack the specialist and get out before they could perform the spell. Some of them even claim he managed to escape and is on the run from Brakebills security. 

At first, none of those who knew him say a thing. None of them thought it would actually happen, at least not to _only_ Quentin. Alice crawls even deeper into herself. Eliot drinks himself silly. Margo tries her best to pull them both out of their funk, but all she gets for her troubles are scowls and, on one memorable occasion, a shove out of the way from Alice. All three of them act as if they can't hear the rumors at all.

It takes three days. Surprisingly enough it's Alice who breaks. The freshmen are in class practicing their spellwork when one particular rumor reaches Penny and Kady a few desks back from her. One student is insistent that Quentin went into that meeting with a plan, and another backs him up, saying that he heard Dean Fogg brought in another specialist not for Quentin but for the _first_ specialist. 

"Yeah, man," the second student whispers, "they say the spell backfired. Bounced right off Coldwater, and they had to bring in someone to help the specialist."

And suddenly it clicks for Penny. 

"What did you say?" he bites out, cutting into their conversation.

The student stutters out the rumor again.

"What's up with you?" Kady asks.

"That moron took it," Penny says with a scowl, and Alice comes out of her shell just a little.

Still, she waits until class has ended, not wanting to draw negative attention from the professor.

"Penny?" she calls out as she catches up to him and Kady afterwards. 

They turn, expectant but bemused. 

"You were talking about Quentin earlier, weren't you?" She tucks some hair behind her ear and gathers her courage. "What did he take?"

Penny rolls his eyes. "He's expelled and still I can't get away from the idiot. Take my advice -- worry about yourself."

"You said he took something," she says stubbornly. "Look, if you tell me I won't bother you again."

"Just tell her," Kady drawls. "The sooner Miss Sunshine leaves us alone, the sooner we can go back to mine."

Penny shakes his head but humors her anyway. "I had a crystal that repelled spells. It went missing the night before the specialist came. Looks like your boy used it to try and get out of being wiped."

"They didn't catch it?" Alice says, startled. She knows there are crystals powerful enough to protect against such spells, but she was sure they'd check for something like that.

"All I know is that he's gone." There's a bit of smugness in his tone.

Alice tightens her grip on her books and shakes her head. "That should have been all of us." It hurts to think that she almost lost her chance to find out what really happened to Charlie, and yet she's barely been able to sleep knowing that she got Quentin expelled. 

"You want to go home? Go ahead. Just leave us out of it," Penny says sharply. "I'm not letting that idiot hold me back. Besides, what's done is done. It's not like he was going to amount to anything anyway."

With that, he turns and starts off. Kady follows behind with a shrug and a smirk. 

Alice can't help it. Before she's aware that she's even moving, her fist is connecting with the back of Penny's head, her knuckles cracking as he stumbles forward.

" _What the fuck_ ," Kady shouts.

"He was a better person than either of you," Alice spits out. Her hands are shaking with the realization of what she actually did, and she pivots and leaves before they can notice, too.

Of course, the rumor mill has a field day with that.

\---

"Well look at you," Margo says proudly as Alice storms into the cottage. "I thought we'd lost you."

Alice stops in the middle of the room, still clutching her books. "I - I need a drink."

"As do I," Eliot chimes in. He waves his empty martini glass in the air for effect. 

"Come tell Margo what's wrong," Margo says and pulls her over to the couch where Eliot is sprawled. "What do you want?"

Alice plops down next to him and frowns. "Something strong." 

"I smell gossip," Eliot drawls. He drapes an arm across her shoulders. " _Spill._ "

The fact that Alice awkwardly leans into him instead of drawing away only arouses their suspicion further. Especially after Quentin disappeared, she rejected all of their offers of company. 

Margo and Eliot share a look. Perhaps they should start off with something less potent. 

She flushes. "I kind of punched Penny."

"Alice Quinn," Margo says with a laugh as she pops open a fresh bottle of white wine. "You punched someone?"

"He was -- He said some rude things about Quentin."

Eliot goes still next to her for a moment, but then he's loose again and reaching up to pat her on the head with a carefree laugh. "And you _clocked_ him? Good girl."

She shakes her head. "He said Quentin had something that repelled spells. Do you think -"

A moment passes as they mull it over. 

"He was looking for ways out," Eliot offers.

Margo settles on the couch next to her with two glasses of wine. "Some people are saying they needed a second specialist."

"But they wouldn't let him escape, would they?" Alice asks quietly.

"Not likely," Margo answers just as quietly, pressing one glass into the other girl's hand. 

Eliot twirls his empty glass, silent.


	2. Something Missing

Quentin watches the nurse replace the bandaids on his knees with detached air, barely even wincing when she cleans the cuts. She already tended to the ones on his hands and face. He would have done it himself if they would let him, but they insist he let the staff take care of it, probably because they figure he wouldn't bother to take care of himself given the chance.

It's an accurate assessment. 

"All done," the nurse mumbles to herself, dropping the bandaid wrappers in the trash. She nods at him. "You can go now, Mr. Coldwater."

He wanders to the TV room and settles onto one of the couches. They don't want him spending all of his time in his bed, and he feels too numb to want to go to the library and find something to read. Besides, they won't bother him here if he at least puts effort into looking like he's paying attention to whatever channel they've set the TVs to. 

He should be at grad school right now. He should be in class or studying or something, but apparently he dropped out. The interview went swimmingly, and his father was so happy for him, even though he vaguely remembers that Julia wasn't. Julia, who wouldn't pick up whenever he used his free calls to call her. He wishes he could remember if they had a falling out.

He wishes he could remember how he got banged up, too. The doctor said his dad brought him in like that, saying that his head was fuzzy and that he was afraid he was going to hurt himself. It looked like he had a breakdown. They never were able to get any answers out of him about it, however, and he barely remembers it. Now they insist on keeping a close eye on him. 

He doesn't argue.

\---

_"Alright Mr. Coldwater, if you'll sit down, we can begin."_

_"O-okay." He pointedly does not pat the pocket holding the crystal. "I'm ready." He closes his eyes._

_There's a charge in the air._

_He hasn't forgotten a thing. He opens his eyes._

_The man they brought in to wipe him is staring at him with a frown on his face._

_"Are you okay?" Quentin asks cautiously._

_The man rubs his eyes. "Who are you?"_

\---

The only one who visits him is his father. He comes by once every week or two, and they sit and pointedly don't talk about anything important. Julia won't answer Quentin's calls, and neither will James. He doesn't have any other friends evidently. Part of him feels like he should, but then again that's the part of him that doesn't want to believe that he willingly dropped out of a good grad program. He gets used to it. 

The worst is the overwhelming sense that he's missing something important. It's bad enough that his memories are fuzzy, but he also can't help but feel like something was taken from him, something vital. The gap is there everyday. Some days he even finds himself furiously wiping away frustrated tears and trying not to scream, because it feels like someone hollowed him out. 

On those days he stares at his hands, willing them to do something. What, he has no idea, but the one thing he's sure about is that they're the key to this hole he finds himself in. 

His therapist suggests crafts. 

In the art room they give him a hunk of clay but no tools. He figures the tools would be a safety hazard, and besides, there's something soothing about kneading the clammy hunk with his hands that almost keeps the ache at bay. His time there is regulated, unfortunately. They encourage him to exercise, too, and of course socialize, but he prefers the clay.

The first misshapen masterpiece he makes is a moth. 

\---

_"I think I should go, it was nice meeting you," Quentin rambles, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambles out the door ignoring the calls of the confused specialist. He tells himself that if he can just make it to the tree line, he'll be free. Keep your head down, he thinks. Don't walk too fast. Use the paths less traveled._

_It almost works, too._

_"Mr. Coldwater," a voice calls out._

_Quentin doesn't bother to turn around. Instead, he picks up his pace, his shoes thudding against the walkway. There are no crowds to hide in here, so he just goes and goes until his thighs burn and --_

_Something heavy slams into him. His chin bounces off the pavement, his knees scream across the pavement, and he can feel the gritty ground slicing into his palms. Whoever was chasing after him is sprawled on his back._

_"Let me up," he gasps out, turning his head. "I didn't --"_

_A hand pushes his face flat against the ground while another slips into his pocket and removes the crystal. "You have an appointment to keep, Mr. Coldwater. I suggest you come willingly."_

\---

Soon enough there is a collection of little moth sculptures on the windowsill in the art room, each one with a small, crude Q.C. etched on the underside. Most of them are lopsided and clunky, but there is progress, and the staff have praised Quentin for sticking with it, though they've all suggested he make a variety of creatures, too. So he adds a very cartoonish lion one week. It's face is a little droopy, and the paws are uneven. He makes a horse next -- or at least it's supposed to be a horse. It doesn't look accurate in the least.

None of his sculptures other than the moths do. Unlike the horse and the lion, he never uses reference pictures to make his moths. Why should he when he dreams of them every night? Sometimes they swarm around him, and he wakes up screaming. Other times, he simply dreams that a handful of them are sitting on him, their wings fluttering with unrest. All he has to do is recreate them. 

His therapist says they could be a good sign. People often interpret them as symbols of faith, determination, and even transformation. 

Quentin mostly thinks they're ominous.

\---

_It takes nearly an entire day for them to bring in the second specialist. He spends all of his time under magical house arrest, isolated from the dorms and classrooms, and, more often than not, he fights back tears of frustration. How could it have gone so_ wrong _?_

_Thankfully, there are no tears when she finally appears._

_"Oh, Quentin," the woman says softly as she takes in his puffy eyes and the scabbing scrapes on his face._

_Even in his grief he recognizes her. She was the paramedic at his grad interview. "Who are you?"_

_"I'm sorry it's come to this," she says instead of answering. She seems genuinely distraught. "I was busy the other day or I would have been brought in rather than Matthews."_

_He winces at the mention of the first specialist. "I didn't -- is he okay?"_

_"We were able to reverse the spell in time, yes." She sighs. "Quentin, I wish it wasn't the truth, but I cannot help you. You attacked an official."_

_"I didn't think it would bounce like that," he insisted._

_"Like it didn't bounce back when you attacked Penny?" she said matter-of-factly. "You were meant for bigger things, you know. But neither I nor the Dean have been able to convince the school to give you another chance."_

_Quentin wipes at his eyes, tired and angry and horribly depressed. "Just do it already."_

_And she does._

_"I hope you find your way, Quentin," is the last thing he hears before they drop him off outside the grounds._

\---

"Mr. Coldwater?" one of the nurses says, squatting down in front of him to get his attention.

It's another afternoon in the TV room staring off into space while the food network plays in the background, and he knows there's nothing else on his schedule until dinner.

He blinks. "Y-yeah?" 

"You have a visitor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter the plot should start to get moving more!


	3. No Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin gets a visitor. Alice makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally figured out the timeline - this chapter takes place during episode three. The title is directly taken from the song "No Stranger" by Small Black. It came up on shuffle while I was writing, and it seemed really fitting.

Quentin imagines the visitor is Julia. She'll come through the door and give him a hug and apologize for not coming sooner or answering his calls, because she's probably been busy with her own grad studies and maybe even with wedding planning. He imagines the anger he feels at being left alone will wilt, and he'll tell her any argument they had has been quite _literally_ forgotten. He'll have his Jules again. It'll be alright.

The visitor is not Julia. 

"Um," Quentin starts, tucking his hair behind his ear, but he doesn't get the chance to finish.

"Is there somewhere more... _private_ we could talk?" his visitor drawls to the staffer who brought him in. If they weren't in a hospital, Quentin would almost think it was an innuendo. 

Even more baffling is that his visitor is not only not Julia, _he's_ most definitely a man. A tall one, too, and dressed loudly, for lack of a better word, which only means that he stands out even more amongst the sterile walls and the drab grays most of the patients wear. (Is that a vest? And a tie?) His hair is also styled, though it's less clean cut and more of a purposeful mess of loose curls. In short, whoever he is, he doesn't belong here.

"There are rooms for private visits," the staffer confirms. "Just follow me."

His visitor strides after the staffer without pause. "Come along, Q."

Quentin trails behind helplessly.

\---

The chairs in the visiting room are old and stuffy, but his visitor lounges in his as if it was made for him. 

"Who are you?" Quentin demands. He hasn't even bothered to sit down yet, not entirely sure that he's the person the man is looking for. "How do you know my name?"

There's a moment where he's not sure his visitor heard him. The man meets his gaze slowly and holds it as if he's looking for something, and then a charming smile blooms on his face. "I'm Eliot."

Quentin frowns. There's something off about that smile, something fake. Somehow he gets the feeling that whatever Eliot was looking for, he didn't find. "I don't know you."

"Not yet."

He shoves his hands in the pocket of his gray hoodie. "How'd -- they just let you in?"

"Well I had to sign in first," Eliot says lazily. "Sit down, Q, you look so uncomfortable over there."

The weirdest thing is that he wants to. Maybe the lack of visitors is getting to him. Still, he knows that visiting is more complicated than signing in. 

"You aren't on my list," Quentin mutters, gripping the back of the chair but not yet sitting down. Only his dad, Jules, and James were approved visitors as far as he knew. "Did you, um, charm your way in?"

Eliot shrugs and smirks. "You think I'm charming?"

_I think you're lonely_ , Quentin thinks but isn't sure why. "Why are you here?" he spits out instead. 

"Visiting," Eliot says dryly. "I'm here to brighten your day with my presence."

Quentin scoffs and finally admits defeat, plopping down into the empty chair. "It doesn't take much."

"Oh?"

"There's not much to do here if you haven't noticed." He fixes his gaze on the wall above Eliot's shoulder. "I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Would these help?" Eliot holds out a small box. "They were very insistent that I unwrap it at the front desk, though I assure you the wrapping paper was fetching."

With a hesitant hand, Quentin takes it from him, their fingers brushing momentarily. It's a simple gift box with a lid and no identifying marks to help him figure out what's inside. 

"Open it, will you?"

He does. Nestled inside is a crisp stack of playing cards with some sort of bee design done in gold and black on the backs, and he suddenly realizes just how much he's missed his own deck. 

"T-thanks. How'd you --"

"Know?" Eliot interrupts. "Don't you do card tricks?"

It's then that Quentin realizes how intensely his visitor is staring at him. He fidgets. "Yeah."

"Well, go on."

And he does. It's refreshing to work with a deck again, and Eliot seems suitably impressed by all of the tricks he does, even though he never loses that air of sadness, of loss. 

"Will you visit again?" Quentin asks once Eliot finally moves to leave.

"Oh, you won't be able to get rid of me, Q."

\---

Eliot takes his time getting back to Brakebills. Part of him is aching to get back to the bar and knock back a few drinks, but mostly he finds himself wishing that visiting hours at the hospital weren't over. The cottage is oddly dull without Quentin around. He tells himself it's the dark cloud that followed Alice everywhere since. In reality, both he and Margo seem to have lost some of their sparkle, too. It's maddening. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

He nearly drops it when he spies Alice storming across the quad, suitcase in hand.

"Whoa now," he calls out as clear as he can with the cigarette pinched between his lips. He picks up his pace and manages to catch up with her in no time, thanks to his longer legs. "Who lit a fire under your ass?"

"Leave me alone, Eliot," she spits. It's the most lively she's been since punching Penny. 

" _Don't_ tell me you're leaving." He means it to sound neutral, but it comes out accusatory.

"I'm leaving," she says shortly. 

They can't lose her, too. Not so soon after Quentin. "Alice --"

She stops abruptly and pivots to face him. "Don't. I did what I came here to do, and now I'm leaving."

"So that's it?" Eliot drops his cigarette and grinds it under his heel. "Taking the easy way out." He can't help the surge of anger he feels. He thought that there'd been some sort of shift after the incident with Penny, that they'd come together under the umbrella of their shared sense of loss. How could she just decide to leave?

She grit her teeth. "I said, I did what I came here to do."

"Let me get this straight," he says sharply. "You let Q take the fall for the summoning, and now you're deciding you don't want to be here anymore?" All he could think of was the way Quentin nearly broke down when he first admitted what they had done, his fear at being expelled.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," she insists. 

"Sorry to break it to you, but it did."

"I can't stay here." For the first time, he notices that her eyes are red, though she isn't crying now. She shakes her head. "You wouldn't understand."

He probably wouldn't, honestly. Brakebills was the best thing that happened to him, and he couldn't see himself giving it up so easily. "Do you know where I was today?" he says instead.

"What?"

"I was visiting dear Q."

Her eyes widen, and Eliot nods.

"Do you know where he is?" he says next. "He's in a hospital."

"What happened to him?" she says quietly.

Eliot chuckles. It's a nasty sound. "He's forgotten his magic. All he knows now is that dreadful, normal world out there. Did you know he was in the hospital before Brakebills, too?"

"I knew he was depressed."

"They probably won't wipe you if you leave," he says, eyeing her. "Not with your family. You're lucky. I barely recognized him."

She wipes at her eyes. "It's not luck."

Eliot shrugs. "If you decide to come back, I'll be at the bar." With that, he turns and heads to the cottage, desperate for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written the next chapter yet, but I plan to clear up what happened with Alice and Charlie, since Q isn't around to use the niffin box this time. I just hope it wasn't too confusing in this chapter!


	4. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Margo have a talk, and Quentin gets another visitor.

There's no one around when Eliot gets back to the cottage, and he's not in the mood to drink alone, so checks Margo's room, a bottle of red and two glasses in hand. She's not there. He tries his own room next, because sometimes she waits for him there. There's no trace of her there, either, even though he knows she should be free and would never go to a party without him. On a hunch, he tries Alice's room.

Margo looks visibly disappointed when she sees him in the doorway. At least, he knows her well enough to tell. 

Eliot stretches out on the single bed next to her and uncorks the wine, wordlessly filling a glass for her.

She snatches the bottle from him instead. "Where were you?" she snaps.

"Visiting a cute boy," he says between sips. He says it flippantly enough but pointedly doesn't look at her when he does. They both know who he's talking about.

She takes a long swig of the wine. "How is he?" 

Eliot hums instead of answering. "You know who I saw on the way back? Our Alice."

"I don't think she's _ours_ anymore," she says sharply.

Scooting closer to her, he lays his head on her shoulder and sighs. "Tell me your woes, Bambi."

It takes a little while longer for her to open up, but when she does, he finds out that in the time he was gone, Alice reluctantly told Margo her ridiculous plan. Honestly, he thought her and Q summoning the Beast was bad enough. _Willingly_ interacting with a niffin? She was a spitfire, that was for sure. 

"I _obviously_ wasn't going to let her get killed," Margo says, taking another swig of the wine. "If I hadn't used the stupid box, she'd be scorch mark on the ground right now."

"Damn right." He pulls the bottle away from her long enough to refill his glass. 

"I'm not going to chase after her."

"She'll be back," he says like it's a fact. He hopes she will, anyway. Alice managed to grow on both of them in such a short time. 

A few minutes pass in silence, the two of them drinking their wine and reveling in the warmth of the other pressed up against their side. 

"El," Margo says eventually, "did I fuck up?"

He twines their fingers together. "She'll be back."

\---

Two days later, a nurse pulls Quentin out of the art room for a visitor. He idly slips a hand into the pocket of his hoodie to feel for the deck of cards Eliot gave him and finds comfort in their crisp edges. It's odd just how happy they make him, but he's had enough time to come to the conclusion that the other man somehow knows just how to read him, how to distract him. It was enough that Quentin quickly decided not to tell the staff that Eliot shouldn't be on his guest list. Why should he, when he actually finds himself smiling when the nurse catches his attention this time? His good mood must be catching, because the nurse doesn't mind making a detour to the art room to grab a moth. (It's all he has to give Eliot in return, after all.)

Except the person waiting in the lounge for him isn't Eliot.

"Hey, Q," Julia says softly. She's not really looking at him, and there's something about her voice that oozes guilt. 

His smiles droops. "Jules?"

She tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. 

It's endearing in the way that he used to find all of her quirks, but now it's hard to see her and not think of all the times he called her only to get her voicemail. She could have a reason, he reminds himself. She has James and school. Still, he hoped seeing her again would be enough to loosen the lump he feels in his chest whenever he thinks about her. It doesn't. 

She tries to smile, but it's shaky at best. "How are you?" 

" _How am I?_ " He clenches his hands around the deck and the moth in his pocket. "You've ignored me for _weeks_ and now you want to know how I'm doing?"

"I've been busy." Her shoulders are stiff, defensive, but there's something restless about her, too. Wasn't Julia supposed to be the composed one?

"Too busy to return my calls and say, _'Hey, Q, I promise I haven't forgotten you'_?" He says sarcastically. The rational part of him notes that there are bags under her eyes, and that her clothes are more rumpled than usual. (But, if something happened, why didn't she confide in him? Didn't she trust him?) He fights back the urge to pace. 

"I haven't," she insists. "Things have just been crazy."

He laughs lowly. "Well, things have been crazy with me, too."

She rubs her eyes and sighs. "Look, Q, I didn't come here to fight. I came here to see you."

"You've seen me," he bites out.

" _And_ talk to you about something," she says over him. "Would you please sit down?"

He does, because a good chunk of him still loves her, even if his crush has mostly faded in her absence.

Sitting down next to him, she turns so that she can stare straight into his eyes, almost as if she's trying to look right into his head. "Do you remember Brakebills?"

"What's Brakebills?" He figures it might be something from their childhood - a show, a street, something he'll only remember once she reminds him. His head hurts a little when he tries on his own. 

Julia grabs one of his hands and scowls. "We already talked about this. You don't have to pretend with me, I remember it just fine."

"Jules, I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, eyebrows raised as he yanks his hand out of her tight grip.

"The magic school," she says like it should be obvious. "You got in, I didn't, remember? It was warm and bright on campus even though it was cold in the city, and - and the test kept changing -"

He shakes his head and shuts his eyes as a migraine sets in. " _Stop._ "

"Q," she presses. 

"No, Jules," he bites out, abruptly standing. The throbbing in his head is getting worse by the second, tears of pain are starting to cloud his vision, and once again he gets the feeling that he's somehow _empty_. "Are you mocking me? I know Fillory isn't real, I'm not a child anymore."

"I'm not talking about books or tricks, Q." She stands up, too. "But magic _is_ real. You know it is."

He shakes his head again, more fervently this time.

"Unless," she whispers. "Unless they wiped you."

His head is screaming, and when he backs up to put some space between them, he stumbles a little from the pain.

"Q -"

"What's going on?" a nurse demands, moving quickly to steady him. 

"My head," Quentin manages.

"You'll have to leave," the nurse tells Julia as she leads him back to the couch. "Miss."

"I'm - I'm sorry." It's the last thing she says before she leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than I expected, sorry! In the future, I'll try to respond to reviews more promptly if it's taking me a while to finish the next chapter. Hope you enjoyed it! :)

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will be centered on Quentin and should clear up anything vague in this chapter! Part of it is already written so it shouldn't take too long to update.
> 
> (Also if anyone reading this has read my other fics - I do intend to update them, I've just had some medical issues that took me away from my computer for a while, and now I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing.)


End file.
